


Science Fiction Double Feature

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, M/M, Mild Gore, Self-Harm, terrible people doing terrible things, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 10:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: I wanna go... to the late-night double feature picture show.  In the back row.





	1. Doctor X Will Build A Creature

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story, the quote in the summary, and the chapter titles are from the song, Science Fiction Double Feature, by Richard O'Brien.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based on are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

It gets stuck in your brain, like a piece of glass under your skin.  
Butch did that, the other day, got a piece of glass stuck under his skin. Before he was able to dig it out, something else happened, and he had to pay attention to that, so he forgot about it. It had stopped hurting almost immediately, so he forgot about it until the next morning, when he woke up. Funnily enough, he still needs to sleep. It seems like he sleeps more than ever. Eats more than ever. Maybe that’s the price of invulnerability. You actually become more human, not less, with more of a human being’s need.  
The glass was gone. Well, it had only been a small piece, a hard, jagged little crumb. The skin was unbroken, obviously. It must have fallen out on its own, and the wound healed over. It was only later that he felt it. It was still there, under the skin. His immediate reaction was horror. It was so stupid. After all the shit he’d been through, this wasn’t the weirdest or the most disgusting or the most painful thing. It just bothered him, in a way he wanted to be unable to define, but he knew exactly why it did. Suddenly, he had developed the impression of the piece of glass as a living thing. Something else was living in his body, when even he was barely able to live in it. Nothing else should be in there. He found a knife.  
He found a knife. It took him a while, cos it wasn’t like he exactly needed them anymore to hurt someone. Oswald had them all over the place, though, in drawers and in the pockets of his coats. It wasn’t safe, Butch thought fleetingly, laughing at himself even as he thought it. He jammed the point into his arm. Probably too deep. Yellow-brown liquid, smelling of stagnant rainwater, welled in the puncture, then ran down his arm in a fat rivulet. He had gone too far down.  
“Fuck it,” he growled, and dug out the chunk of flesh and skin, with the glass at the center like the yolk of an egg. The swamp water flowed profusely.  
He didn’t feel a fucking thing.  
He tied a handkerchief around the wound, and went looking for a roll of tape. There was packing tape in the kitchen drawer. He wrapped it around the gash in his arm, and went back to clean up the mess he’d made.  
When Butch returned, though, Oswald was standing over the knife, dropped on the floor, and the gobbet of dead meat, fallen. Oswald was staring at the detritus, his mouth open.  
“Hey,” Butch said, and Oswald gasped, stumbled back.  
“What-”  
“Had a little accident.”  
Oswald frowned, that ugly, puzzled frown that twisted his face into a Cubist work. “Are you-”  
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”  
That’s when it hit him: Oswald has known him long enough to understand what he’s trying to say by how he says it. Butch knew it, but it was still, in a strange way, surprising to watch Oswald’s mouth close, his eyes clear in understanding. Oswald nodded, turned around, and left.  
What sticks:  
“I like it.”  
Fuck it. You feel stupid. You feel like a kid. Still young and stupid enough to get stuck on a weird lie or a joke and take it for a revelation. The sun parts the clouds like a hand of silver, and you see the world anew.  
When you grow up, you learn that anytime shit like that happens- anytime the world changes, it ain’t for the better, and you’d better run.  
But fuck it.  
Fuck Oswald.  
Fuck Butch, too.  
Did Oswald always drink this much? It seems like something Butch would have noticed. Maybe he did, but he’s just noticing it again, in that weird way that feels like it’s new. For once, it’s not something about what the swamp water, the swamp water and Tabitha beating sense back into him, what the swamp and Tabitha, did to his brain.  
It’s just getting old.  
If things you already knew seem to surprise you, like it’s the first time, it’s because you’re just getting old. Sometimes, it’s like that, like going in reverse.  
“You like it,” Butch says, and Oswald slowly turns his head, his gaze slightly watery under falling eyelids, his mouth relaxed into the frown that means he’s drunk.  
“Like what?” Oswald asks, trying to sound suspicious, but only sounding drunk.  
“When you tried to pick me up the other day, you said you liked the way I look now.”  
Blank. Oswald looks blank, and trapped. For a second, Butch feels a sliver of sympathy, or pity, caught like glass under the skin, shining like a silver hand. “You said you like the way I look,” he repeats.  
“I meant no offense,” Oswald says, annoyed. It’s a cover. Either he still doesn’t remember, and doesn’t want to admit it, or it’s something else.  
It is, Butch decides, something else. It’s something else because Jerome might have been a dumbfuck, but that was something to do, and now, Jerome is dead, and they haven’t worked in weeks. The less Butch has to do, the more he thinks, and the more he thinks, the worse he feels. The worse he feels, the more he wants to drag someone down with him.  
“What did you mean by it?”  
Oswald rolls his eyes. “Not what you think.”  
“What do I think?”  
“I wasn’t making fun. Jesus. You’re so sensitive.”  
“So, you meant it.”  
“Yes,” Oswald snaps. “Jesus,” he says again, and refills his glass.  
“What do you like so much about it? That I look like a walking corpse?”  
“You don’t look like a corpse. So dramatic. Oh, my God. It’s unusual. It makes an impact.”  
“Yeah. Making an impact. That’s what I like to do.”  
“I’m going to fix you,” Oswald says, too drunk, the words coming too easily, too runny, for it to be a lie.  
“Maybe you’ll take your time, though. Maybe you like looking at me too much.”  
Oswald slams his glass down on the table. “Would you just tell me what the hell is wrong with you?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Then stop acting like this,” Oswald says, pouty like he gets. Pouty like a kid that can’t control anything, but doesn’t understand enough to know it.  
You want to see what someone’s made of, you can scare them. Butch has known that as long as he can remember. What is there to know? It’s not rocket science. You want to see what someone’s really made of, make them need you. He learned that from Fish, Tabitha. But if you really want to see it, really see it, make them want it. Make them want what you’re doing to them, even when they hate it. Especially then. Victor Zsasz taught him that.  
Even in the old days, Butch could have thrown Oswald over his shoulder. Now, Oswald weighs nothing. He’s a splinter of glass. Butch can almost see right through him.  
“What the hell are you doing?” Oswald asks, without much conviction. He wriggles in Butch’s grasp, but he only reaches for his glass. He looks at Butch. He’s not scared. He’s looking at Butch like Butch is a piece of furniture.  
“Kiss me.”  
Oswald rolls his eyes. “You can’t possibly be that lonely.”  
“Not me. You.”  
“Fuck you.”  
“Not on the first date.”  
Oswald’s face bends into a sneer, and then he laughs, a quick hacking sound, like clapping hands. When he kisses Butch, though, it’s soft. It’s soft and drunk, and his eyes are closed, and he has his hand on Butch’s cheek. His hand is cold. His breath is warm, his mouth is warm, and he relaxes in Butch’s arms. If he registers the taste of swamp water, if he finds it shocking or displeasing, he doesn’t let it show. Maybe he does like it. Maybe it’s some monster movie trip. Maybe Oswald was always secretly rooting for the monster, for the fiend, wishing he’d find love with the screaming girl. Wishing that she’d just give him a chance. Maybe, in Oswald’s mind, he was the monster. Maybe, in Oswald’s mind, he was the screaming girl. Being carried away by some big brute. Being thrown down into the mud and muck, and loving every second of it. Look at Nygma long enough, and his face started to seem not-quite-right. He started to look like one of those B-movie mad scientists, braying and cackling. Like a scarecrow. Like the living dead. Maybe that was always what it was about.  
It’s just Butch’s luck. The only person in the world who doesn’t want to run away from him is fucking Oswald. At least it’s not pity, or kindness, which is what you get from people who’re smart enough to disguise their pity.  
Yeah, cos being some freak’s idea of a good time is much better than all of that.  
He pulls away from Oswald. Oswald is breathing heavily; his throat is flushed, his lips are wet. He looks up at Butch. Butch can tell from his eyes that he’s starting to sober up. It’s a long, hard, slow road, but once he gets there, Oswald might not like the scenery so much.  
Butch isn’t angry.  
He’s not anything.  
He smooths his hand over Oswald’s cheek.  
He puts Oswald back where he found him.

The next night, Oswald gets drunk again.  
That’s nothing. Oswald gets drunk every night. Tonight, he overdoes it, though, and Butch is left with the choice between leaving him passed out at the dining room table, his head fallen back, all ready to choke on his own vomit, and picking him up and carrying him to his room.  
Oswald doesn’t weigh anything.  
It occurs to him to toss Oswald down onto his bed, but he doesn’t. He’s always been too nice to Oswald. That’s why he gets stuck doing things like this. He should have killed Oswald a long time ago. He should have done it when Oswald got out of Arkham, came to the house. At the time, he’d told himself that the real punishment was leaving Oswald alive, to whatever fate was out there waiting to clamp its teeth down on him. When he’d explained it to Tabitha afterwards, she’d understood. She’d nodded gravely, terrible and beautiful. What Tabitha wouldn’t have understood, probably couldn’t have, was that it would have been like killing a mouse or something. Even if it was hurt and suffering, you didn’t want to do it. Something in you rebelled. Something in you was nauseated at the thought. It didn’t matter if you’d done much worse things, done them for fun, or just because you could. Some piece of a person always stays innocent.  
Butch really believes that.  
He looks at Oswald, lying on his side, his mouth open against the pillow, and shakes his head.  
The next night, Oswald says: “You won’t have to carry me to bed tonight. I can walk, all on my own.”  
Butch shrugs. “Sure.”  
Oswald makes a face, and gets up. He sways. He takes a step. He stumbles.  
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Butch says.  
“What was that?” Oswald snaps.  
“You’re gonna fall down the stairs, and break your neck.”  
“Like you care.”  
“Fine.”  
He doesn’t have to look at Oswald to know that Oswald’s frowning. It’s the frown that distorts his entire face, makes it ugly, makes it hard. “Would you please make sure that I don’t accidentally kill myself?”  
Sighing, Butch gets up, and slowly, they make their way through the house, upstairs, down the hall, to Oswald’s bedroom. One last stumble, on the threshold.  
Butch catches him.  
Oswald’s looking up at him. His mouth is open and his eyes are soft, but he’s not that drunk.  
“What, are you gonna bat your eyelashes at me? If you want something, you can ask for it.”  
Oswald laughs. The same haughty, nervous laugh he used to give when he was caught in a lie, caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. “I told you. I’m not that lonely.”  
He runs his hands up Oswald’s arms, feels the change in the way he’s holding himself. Oswald’s head falls back slightly. “Sure you are,” Butch says.  
“What if I am?” Oswald spits. “You aren’t getting many offers these days.”  
When someone’s acting like they want you to hurt them, when they’re looking for an excuse to feel hurt, to be angry at you, it’s better not to hurt them. It’s like hurting them twice. You hurt their expectations. Sometimes, getting hurt feels better than not being touched, at all. “If you want to get hit, go out on the street. I’m not doing that.”  
Oswald frowns. “All right,” he says quietly.  
“So, what’s it going to be?”  
“I don’t know what I want.”  
“But you want something.”  
“Yes,” Oswald says, mouth pulling tight.  
That’s enough. “All right.”  
He kisses Oswald on the bed, pulling Oswald up into his lap. The alcohol makes Oswald bitter, but it makes him soft. He lets himself be moved around, undressed like a doll. He holds onto Butch, moves against him. Butch eases Oswald onto his back, eases down onto him. Oswald holds him tighter. Maybe he was right. Maybe, behind his eyes, Oswald’s watching all of those old movies. Imagining a cemetery lawn crushed under him, pressing into his skin. Listening for the howling wind. Waiting for the monster to carry him away. Is he afraid? Does that make it better? Beneath Butch’s hand, the pulse in Oswald’s throat is hard and fast. He squeezes gently, feels Oswald rub against him. He lets go, then does it again. He looks at the red marks on Oswald’s throat. He looks at Oswald’s face; his eyelids fluttering, his mouth hanging open. Feels his pulse, and the warmth of his body, and the way he moves.  
When you can’t do something, you can’t do it. There’s no explaining it. You just can’t.  
You can’t.  
He gets off of Oswald. Standing in the doorway, he looks at Oswald, watches him slowly sit up as he realizes that something’s changed. If he says something, Butch doesn’t know, because Butch is gone.


	2. I'm Gonna Give You Some Terrible Thrills

Did you think it wouldn’t be strange?  
Hey- everything is strange.  
It was always going to be strange, no matter what happened.  
Why flinch?  
Have you ever known that something was going to happen, that you were going to do something, known, even, in some dim way that it was what you really wanted, without knowing why, but still tried to avoid doing it? You don’t want it to change you. You don’t want to be changed. You’re tired of changing. You were fine the way you were. Now, you’ll never be fine again.  
Oswald’s his usual self; just more. He pouts, he rages, he blusters, he threatens. He drinks. He accuses. He insults. It’s soothing, in a weird way. Oswald doesn’t change. He never changes. Though, he changed once. That was probably enough for him. Why would he want to do it again?  
What does it matter?  
What does it really fucking matter?  
Butch asks himself.  
Expecting an answer.  
Like there is an answer.  
Things happen to you, and you don’t get an answer.  
Maybe you can fight off certain things, but then… you’re bored.  
God, you’re bored.  
“The other night...” Butch begins.  
“Oh, please,” Oswald spits, rolling his eyes more than he probably means to, because it’s late, and he’s been drinking. “Like that meant anything. I didn’t expect you to go through with it, anyway. I was surprised that you were willing to go that far.”  
“Yeah. Okay. Are you gonna stay angry forever?”  
Oswald takes a long, hissing sip of his drink. “Yes.”  
“Do you want to try again?”  
As though struck, Oswald pulls back, eyes narrowing, holding the glass close to himself. “Why are you doing this? Is it revenge?”  
Butch shakes his head. “It’s not revenge.”  
“Are you trying to humiliate me? Because it takes way more than this.”  
“No. I just feel like it’s something I have to do.”  
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Oswald says. He gets up, snatches the bottle off of the table, and leaves.  
That’s not all there is to Oswald, though. You know that. He couldn’t be that hard if he weren’t soft to go with it. The hardest people were sometimes once the softest. Sometimes, you have to have both of those things in the same place.  
Fish was like that. She knew how to use her feelings against you, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t real. It was all real, and it all hurt her, which is how she got so good at hurting other people.  
Tabitha’s not like that. Everything there is to her, you see it immediately. Nothing about her needs untangling. It all falls to pieces in your hands. There was never a mystery. If you got played, it was because you played yourself.  
Probably just to give yourself something to do.  
You know what life after death is? Life after death is a lot of long, lonely hours with nothing to do. There’s nothing to do because you don’t need anything anymore. You’re lonely, because there’s no one else there. No one comes with you when you change. No one knows you anymore.  
Except, maybe, this once.  
He pulls Oswald into his arms.  
Oswald asks him what he’s doing, but it’s to say something, anything.  
Butch doesn’t answer, because there is no answer. If there were, he wouldn’t care what it was. Sometimes- most of the time- the answer doesn’t matter. It won’t break the spell. It won’t make you who were supposed to be. That’s all you want. There’s no answer to that.  
Oswald slaps him. It barely feels like anything, but Butch appreciates the gesture. He lets Oswald slap him again. Again. Hit him with a closed hand. Butch lets himself believe that his nostril fills with blood. He tries to remember the taste of blood, the taste of his own blood, when he was punched in the nose or the mouth.  
When Oswald’s gotten his pound of flesh, Butch kisses him. He feels Oswald exhale as though he were being wrung out. He feels the softness wind back into Oswald, feels Oswald wrap his arms around him. Smells his cologne, his sweat, his cigarettes, that shit he puts in his hair to make it stand up. Tastes whiskey.  
“If you’re fucking with me again, I swear to God, I will shoot you in the head,” Oswald says.  
“Duly noted.”  
Oswald hits him again. That one, that one stings a little.  
Oswald tells him to leave the light on.  
Sure. Let him look. Oswald’s almost that pale, himself, anyway. The bones in his leg never healed properly. Butch can’t even remember where it was that Fish hit him. Everything’s out of wack, now, so it could have been anywhere. There are scars on Oswald’s body that Butch didn’t notice the other night; big, ugly ones. The kind you get when someone patches you up who isn’t a doctor. The one on his shoulder’s not that bad, it’s not so new, but the one on his belly is puckered like a badly-repaired cushion.  
“Don’t touch that,” Oswald says, but doesn’t do anything when Butch touches, anyway. In the center, it feels like rubber, like it isn’t real. Beat it up enough, and skin barely feels like skin anymore. You never really heal, do you? Butch moves his hand down.  
Who knows what either of them is made of anymore?


End file.
